


as men strive for right

by bickz



Series: OC Kiss Week '19 [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Crispin Blackall, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Fluff, Morrígan Le Fay, Neck Kissing, OCKissWeek, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bickz/pseuds/bickz
Summary: 'Meditation' is definitely not a word in Crispin's vernacular.





	as men strive for right

**Author's Note:**

> im shamefully obsessed with crispin

It's late afternoon; the sun hangs low in the sky, and shadows creep from their hiding spots, spreading through the forest like smoky tendrils to reclaim their domain. This is Morrígan's favourite time of the day. Not because of the impending darkness, nor the beauty of the vibrant sunset. No, the silence is what the sorcerer enjoys most. The absolute stillness of the world, as if it's holding its breath, counting the seconds until the sun retreats completely for the night.

Morrígan takes in a deep breath of the cool air and exhales it in a quiet sigh. As much as they've come to enjoy the presence of others (or rather, a select few), loneliness will still be their closest companion. In moments such as this, the sorcerer is given the chance to process the day's events, to reflect upon what was said, and what could have been. It's not always the most pleasant experience, but they need it.

Eyes closed, Morrígan lets their guard down, lets their mind wander, lets themself relax and  _ feel _ . Above the sorcerer, perched on a tree branch sits Badb, their three-eyed crow familiar, ever present, ever watchful. She lets out a low caw, a signal to tell her master that all is well. Morrígan wholeheartedly trusts Badb and her ability to alert them of any unwanted guests, and so they let themself block out all of their senses and become numb to the outside world.

Not five minutes pass before Morrígan feels arms suddenly snake around their shoulders, unceremoniously jerking them back to reality. Untamed magic crackles under their skin as instinct draws out lethal blue-green flames. Their eyes snap open, and they whip around, prepared to attack their assailant without hesitation, assuming the worst has become of Badb and will soon befall themself. As the sorcerer turns their face, they can feel the person lean closer, press their bodies together without fear, their warmth unsettlingly familiar. And then, something soft brushes against Morrígan's cheek, a fleeting touch that makes their heart clench.

“Calm down, luv. It's just me,” Crispin murmurs, and Morrígan can hear his trademark grin in his words. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Cris! Don't scare me like that,” Morrígan hisses back, uncharacteristically flustered. They struggle to reign in their magicks, a desperate attempt to keep their lover from being engulfed in fire. “For the sake of keeping your eyebrows, give me some warning next time.”

Crispin chuckles, his breath hot against Morrígan's jaw and sending jolts of electricity through them. They squirm uncomfortably, feebly trying to free themself. The artificer has no idea the effects he has on Morrígan, the way he makes their heart pound by just being close, makes them feel lightheaded with a simple peck on the cheek.  _ This  _ is why the sorcerer needs their time alone.

“Fine, fine. No promises, though.” Crispin leans forward to press his lips against Morrígan's freckled cheek once more, earning himself a disgruntled sigh. He makes it clear that he's not leaving, not yet.

Morrígan grits their teeth, conflicted in their desire to please their lover, but also wanting to teach him a lesson for disturbing them. They glance up to spot Badb, still in her spot, staring down at them. She seems to grin conspiringly, remaining silent to preserve her relative innocence. The sorcerer just frowns disapprovingly at the bird -- they'll deal with that later.

Warm breath washes over Morrígan's neck, drawing their attention back to Crispin. “You're a brat,” they mumble before letting their eyes slip shut, easily succumbing.

More little kisses are peppered down Morrígan's jaw and neck, soft and unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world to get lost in each other. The sorcerer melts into Crispin's touches, relaxing back against his chest and turning their head to expose more of their neck with a quiet, content sigh. Try as they might, Morrígan can't deny their lover, nor can they keep up an inscrutable façade when he kisses them like this. 

“You can go back to mediating, if you want,” Crispin breathes against Morrígan's flesh, a knowing smirk on his face. “Don't mind me, luv.”

Morrígan doesn't respond verbally, just lets out a low grumble. Another chuckle caresses their skin, this time angled down, into the crook of their neck. Crispin continues his gentle pecks down to the sorcerer's collar, and once there, parts his lips just enough to graze the flesh with his teeth, eliciting a sharp inhale. He hums, pleased with himself, before attacking Morrígan's pale skin with purpose.

Crispin's attentions become more fervent, clearly intending to leave marks. Morrígan wants to scold him, wants to pull away, but can't bring themself to, spiralling further and further into their repressed desires. Each wet nibble forces soft moans from the sorcerer's throat, despite how hard they try to stifle and swallow them down. The needy noises only serve to encourage the wily artificer. 

“ _ Morrígan _ ,” Crispin speaks up. The words are so quiet, hushed right into the hollow of Morrígan's neck, only audible due to their proximity. There's a beat of bated silence, of words left unspoken, but the intention is felt through the heat of Crispin's mouth.

As the sun finally sets, casting the two in shadowy solitude, Morrígan lets their inhibitions slip. They know that there's no fighting against Crispin, against their combined longing. Even though the sorcerer needs to meditate in order to keep their mind and magicks in check, they need  _ this _ more -- this feeling of belonging, of being wanted and loved. And they need to reciprocate it, to show Crispin that they care, that they're here. No amount of meditation could be better for Morrígan than being wrapped up in his arms.


End file.
